


if a tree don't fall on me i'll live till i die (we have been shot at before)

by jukeboxgraduate



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, In All Directions, M/M, no one dies here i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:15:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27033283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jukeboxgraduate/pseuds/jukeboxgraduate
Summary: It’s far from the first time he’s been shot, but it’s never bled quite so much before.
Relationships: Hosea Matthews/Dutch van der Linde
Comments: 18
Kudos: 59





	if a tree don't fall on me i'll live till i die (we have been shot at before)

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is inspired by [this piece](https://the-curious-couple-fanart.tumblr.com/post/629082694560677888/we-have-been-shot-at-before-hosea-part-%C2%BD) and [this piece](https://the-curious-couple-fanart.tumblr.com/post/630176746560536576/we-have-been-shot-at-before-hosea-part-22-1) from selene, one of the most incredible artists i've had the pleasure of meeting.
> 
> if my tagging/warnings are not accurate PLEASE don't hesitate to drop a comment and let me know because i am extremely bad at it.
> 
> selene - grazie per l'ispirazione, vorrei poterlo scrivere in italiano per te - ma forse un domani.

1879

An arm falling heavily against Hosea’s chest wakes him with half a start. Dutch stirs next to him, woken by his own restlessness.

“You toss around any more you’ll fall right off,” Hosea says quietly. The cot is narrow, but they're able to fit themselves into it comfortably, Dutch throwing himself warmly over Hosea through most of the night - once he had finally stopped his puttering around the small cabin and came to bed.

Dutch rolls onto his back, their shoulder pressed tightly together. He blinks himself awake with a huff and looks around in the low morning light. 

“It’s early,” Dutch says. The cabin is painted with the greys of the early autumn morning, the sun not yet risen. Hosea can feel the chill of the night in the end of his nose. 

Dutch lifts himself on his elbow to look over Hosea to where Arthur is asleep near the stove and its dwindling fire a few feet away. Dutch lays back again, seemingly satisfied, and presses his face into Hosea’s neck. His nose feels as cold as Hosea’s, so Hosea lets him be, staring up at the ceiling until Dutch spreads a warm, wandering hand over Hosea’s hip. 

“Dutch,” Hosea warns softly, knowing Dutch knows better, long familiar with the games he plays, as routine as the deep breath Dutch takes as he wakes every morning. Arthur has seen enough of it, Hosea is sure. "Later. Tomorrow." 

Dutch resigns, rolling onto his back again, lying still until Hosea turns onto his side, hunkering under the layered blankets and burying his face in Dutch's shoulder. Warmth radiates through his clothes and eases the chill in Hosea's nose. Dutch turns onto his side and the bulk of his shoulder is replaced with the softness of his chest.

"You should see yourself," Dutch rumbles softly, his tone just teasing enough for comfort. He takes a nearly irritating pride in Hosea needing anything from him, even if only sharing his warmth. 

"Yeah, well," Hosea says into his chest, and abandons the retort. He stays curled under the blankets, waiting to feel warm enough to move - a habit, more or less. Dutch is always warm, enough so that Hosea has shoved him away on more comfortable nights. 

Hosea feels himself returning to his limbs and he stretches out, kisses his gratitude on Dutch's knuckles, and frees himself from the blankets. He coughs twice and lifts himself from the cot, the echo of pain in his chest reminding him of the long winter ahead of him. 

"Alright, gentlemen, shall we get on with things?" Hosea pulls the blankets from a protesting Dutch. Arthur rolls over on his bedroll and grumbles. 

Hosea fiddles with the stove and stokes the fire, lifelong morning habits that translate easily from camp to cabin. Dutch watches him with a familiar fondness. 

The nights had become suddenly cold some days ago, and they had conveniently stumbled upon the lonely cabin with enough of its walls left to stop the wind. It's hardly big enough for three men, and hardly furnished for one, but its novelty and warmth are happily welcomed. Hosea will hate to leave it, would rather stay than head south or spend the winter moving from inn to inn. It would be nice, he thinks, to someday be able to stay under the same roof for more than a week, should he live to see Dutch settle himself down enough. It was difficult enough to convince him to take the rest they’ve had over the last days, and Dutch is already on edge and talking about moving on.

Hosea quietly starts coffee, and Arthur rustles up a breakfast for himself, and Dutch sprawls out over the cot, snoring softly. The coffee finishes and Hosea pours it into their three battered cups, then shoves Dutch awake.

“Get up, Dutch. You’re the one who wanted to make some money today,” Hosea says. Dutch grumbles and pulls himself up. Hosea holds a cup of coffee out to him and sits down in a chair backwards, crossing his arms over the back. Dutch sips at his coffee and lazily smooths out his hair. 

“Okay,” Dutch finally says to himself, looking entirely ready and rested save for the mess of his hair. Arthur looks up from the can in his hands. “Let’s get some money before we get out of here, huh?” 

“Sure,” Arthur agrees, sitting against the wall on his bedroll. The legs of his pants look too short, having shrunk from too much wear and washing. Hosea will have to remember it when they next stop through a town. 

Hosea drinks his coffee, and they finish a conversation that had faded the night before, when Hosea had resigned himself to falling asleep and Dutch had stayed aimlessly awake. Days ago Hosea had scouted out the nearby road, looking for any locations that would be profitable, at Dutch’s insistence. He had promised to tell Dutch more in the morning. 

“The road ain’t friendly, folks don’t go through without good reason, but when they do…well, you know,” Hosea sips his coffee. "They’re either doing the robbing or getting robbed themselves. Holding somebody up out this way, that could be trouble, but…”

“If we choose wisely there won’t be trouble,” Dutch says, in a tone at once his own and an echo of Hosea's.

“Exactly,” Hosea says. Dutch nods and looks to Arthur, seemingly satisfied with Arthur’s lack of expression.

Shooing Arthur from where he reclines across the foot of the cot, Dutch produces a map from his satchel and whips it open, laying it across the ragged blankets.

“Show me,” Dutch says over his shoulder. Hosea sighs and gets up to look at the map, his shoulder pressing into Dutch’s. Arthur looks on, craning his neck to see.

“Right about here, I’d reckon,” Hosea points to a trace fading in the folds of the map. “We’re here, so just a few miles away. Long as we work fast and ride out in the opposite direction…” Hosea trails his finger along the map, the paper familiar under his touch, “and circle back around, we should be just fine.”

“You think there’s a good take?” Dutch asks.

“Better than anything else. Less likely to be regular folk out this way. All the more reason to be  _ careful. _ " 

Hosea and Arthur finish their breakfast, Dutch electing for coffee and a cigarette instead, despite Hosea’s head-shaking. They pack their things onto their horses, in case they can’t make it back. Arthur brims with excitement and attitude, his apprehension making him smart. Hosea doesn’t bother to reprimand him and tries not to laugh when Dutch bristles. 

They ride out, the morning still young and damp. Dutch rambles as they ride, and Arthur listens to him intently while Hosea nods along, half-listening, watching the trees and their changing colors. 

Within an hour they come to the road, and Hosea takes the lead to show them up the trace to an old outpost, long-abandoned. They leave the horses out of sight and settle onto some weather-worn crates around the back of the outpost, mindlessly playing cards in silence. Arthur loses each time - even when Hosea and Dutch don’t cheat - and Hosea tells himself to remember to work on Arthur's figuring with him later like he’s been promising. 

The clouds finally break and let the sun through to take the chill from the air. Three lone travelers pass them by, either not noticing them or not acknowledging them.

The sound of horse hooves crunching over the rocky road comes toward them again. Hosea peers around the corner. Four men, dressed in the fine clothes of folks with good money and bad sense, are riding up the road.

"You think?" Dutch asks. 

"Sure," Hosea says softly. It looks easy enough. Dutch puts out his cigarette and pulls up his bandana. Arthur and Hosea follow suit. “Let’s try not to kill anybody.”

“Easy,” Dutch winks at him.

In practiced motions, like a stage performance, Dutch moves around the corner of the outpost and into the road, casually brandishing his pistol, Arthur at his heels. Arthur walks just like him, looking perfectly imposing when he wants to, even without Dutch’s bravado. Hosea stays back, his pistol ready in his hand, feeling like it has its own pulse.

“Hey, fellas,” Dutch says casually. It will get him killed someday, Hosea thinks. Dutch puts too much faith into men like him. “Mind if we take a look in those saddlebags? They’re looking awful heavy.” 

Hosea doesn’t hear the exchange, the men - surely no older than Dutch himself - muttering amongst themselves. Dutch confidently opens the leading man's saddlebags, fishing through them with efficiency and dropping the loot into his own saddlebag draped over his shoulder. 

“Where’d you all come from to have all this?” Dutch asks, not getting an answer. He tosses a saddlebag to Arthur, who tosses it in turn to Hosea. Arthur holds them in place with his own gun, looking much older than his young age but seeming all that much younger in Hosea’s eyes. Hosea feels a flash of regret that Arthur should be in such a situation.

The first man looks over his shoulder, his jaw set tensely, and holds the eyes of the man behind him, who looks to Arthur and carefully raises his gun. 

Hosea fires before he can think, and the man falls from his horse as it startles. Arthur and Dutch duck to the ground, Dutch pulling Arthur backward with him, a saddlebag still slung over his shoulder.

A bolt rips through Hosea’s side, and he feels the wind knocked from his lungs before he feels the pain. Dutch turns back to him, eyes wide in sudden fright, and Hosea waves him on. The man who shot him still stares at him from behind his rifle, wide eyes in a young face, not much older than Arthur. 

Hosea feels the heat of his own blood dripping down his side. He holds the man’s eyes, silently begging him to turn and run, but he stays. He lifts his rifle again, eyeing the gun still in Hosea’s hand. Hosea fires from his hip and grimaces as the man starts and slumps in his saddle, bleeding harshly from his shoulder, his horse taking off underneath him. 

Two men are still on horseback, and Arthur and Dutch are holding them off from behind an old stack of crates, Dutch holding one hand on Arthur’s shoulder to keep him out of sight and Arthur clearly fighting it. Hosea thinks to join them, but the pain in his side is burning through his arm and his hip, and he hurriedly hobbles around the back of the decrepit outpost. He pushes open a door hanging by one hinge and leans against the wall, letting himself slide down to the floor. He can hear Dutch shouting something, though his ears ring from the sharp ache in his side and the noise of gunfire. 

He lifts a hand to feel the wound through his torn shirt, the blood sticky and hot and leaking too quickly. The pain throbs erratically between his pounding heart and ragged breathing. He straightens up, pulls off his bandana, inhales as deeply as he can. His muscles ache, but his lungs are clear. So he’ll keep on breathing, he thinks, at the very least. He presses his hand against his side, watching the blood seep through his fingers. 

It’s far from the first time he’s been shot, but it’s never bled quite so much before.

Through the daze Hosea hears boots on the outpost’s floorboards, hears his name being softly called, and then Dutch and Arthur fill the doorway. 

“Oh, Hosea,” Dutch drops himself to his knees, panic brimming in his eyes over his bandana. Arthur pulls his own bandana off his face, asking questions Hosea can hardly hear. He feels Dutch lightly checking the gash in his side through the tear in his shirt. “It don’t look too bad. Hey, Hosea.” Dutch lightly pats his cheek. 

“I’m okay,” Hosea says softly, his lips dry. 

“Okay. Come on, old girl. Up you get,” Dutch slips an arm under Hosea’s and straightens him up. Hosea lets him, feels Arthur secure himself under his other arm. The saddlebag that had been slung over Hosea’s shoulder thuds to the floor. “Oh, Hosea. You never let me down. Arthur, can you get that?” 

Arthur disappears from Hosea’s side and Hosea leans his weight into Dutch. Dutch guides him in slow but worrying steps out the door and whistles, and Hosea hears the horses approaching from where they had left them in the trees. With his free arm Dutch steadies his own horse, a chestnut blur in Hosea’s vision.

“I can ride,” Hosea says. 

“Sure you can, but you ain’t gonna. Get up,” Dutch says. Hosea nods, thinking painfully through the motions of mounting a horse. Dutch hums, guides Hosea’s foot into the stirrup. “Come on, we gotta get outta here. On three.” Dutch counts, and helps Hosea hoist himself into the saddle. “Ain’t never been so glad you’re so thin.” 

Hosea feels an instinctive retort in his dry, tired mouth as Dutch settles into the saddle in front of him. Hosea drops his head against the back of Dutch’s shoulder, loosely holding onto his shirt, regretting dirtying Dutch’s clothes with his bloody hand, but he supposes he’ll wash everything later. He keeps one hand pressed over his side.

“You all set, Arthur?” Dutch calls.

“Yeah, Dutch, all set,” Arthur calls back, sounding far away. Dutch whistles for Hosea’s horse, and Hosea hears Hardtack's familiar hoofbeats alongside them as Beatrice steps into motion under him. Dutch talks steadily, though not without panic creeping into his voice. Hosea hears it like a voice in a dream. He tries to focus on Dutch’s familiar form against his chest instead of the searing pain in his side and the fogginess in his head. 

“We ain’t far, Hosea, you know. Ain’t nobody left to follow us save the law, but they won’t be able to track too easy through the scrub, like you said. The ride ain’t far. I really thought those saddlebags you had got lost on one of them horses that ran off. Thought all this trouble weren’t for nothing.” 

Hosea wants to laugh. He tries to regain his breathing, his lungs still only allowing him short breaths that urge him to cough, though he resists it for the pain he knows it will cause. 

The trees pass by from where he rests his head against Dutch’s back. In the safety of the trees and Dutch’s saddle, he feels his body finally start to shake in pained tremors. Each wave sends Dutch’s voice further into warbling panic. 

He can feel one of Dutch’s tense muscles under his forehead, a knot Hosea has tried time and time again to work out of his shoulder. He adds it to the rest of his worries for later, for once the bleeding has stopped, along with Arthur’s pants and figuring, and getting the blood out of their clothes. 

⦿⦿⦿

The cabin comes into view through the trees, and once they enter the clearing Dutch swings himself down from his horse and looks up at Hosea, swaying in the saddle. Dutch eases him down, hating to touch him for how unfamiliar he feels in all his guarded pain. He can feel Hosea's blood cooling and sticking on his own skin.

He guides Hosea into the cabin, sits him down in the creaking chair. Hosea leans heavily against its back and hangs his head, breathing in slow, pained breaths. Dutch doesn’t want to look at him, fear and shame welling up in his chest each time he does. Each time Hosea shakes, Dutch feels panic and nausea rush through him. The door swings shut as Arthur throws the saddlebags onto the dusty floor and busies himself digging through his satchel.

Dutch sinks to his knees and starts pressing his handkerchief against Hosea's side, the blood soaking through it, though ebbing more slowly than before. He tries to break through his own worries to think of what to do. 

Hosea won’t die - not from this - and Dutch knows it. Still, he grinds his teeth against his own guilt, against thoughts of burying Hosea, but more strongly against the prospect of Hosea having had enough of it all and leaving him. And then what would become of Arthur? Dutch stares blankly at the soaking fabric in his hand. 

"Dutch," Hosea whispers, and Dutch feels a swell of relief followed by a surge of guilt that Hosea should comfort him. "Water." 

Dutch fumbles for his canteen and holds it to Hosea's lips, Hosea's own bloody hands loosely covering Dutch's as he drinks. The ground seems to solidify beneath him again, hard and steady, as Hosea lowers the canteen. 

"How is it?" Dutch asks. Hosea looks at him, his eyes dreary. 

"Ain't half as bad as you look," Hosea says. Dutch blinks, and Hosea wheezes a laugh. "Really." 

"Hosea, quit being snide for a minute in your life," Dutch says, his feeling of transparency suddenly gone. If Hosea is well enough for chiding then he's likely well enough to make it through the night, and, somehow more importantly, not angry with Dutch.

“You act like I ain’t been shot before,” Hosea says.

“Not like this,” Dutch says. They’ve both had their arms and and legs grazed and spent days pulling shot from each others’ skin. Nothing had drained the color from their faces quite like this. Dutch starts unbuttoning Hosea's shirt, pushing it from his chest, the fabric stiff with drying blood. "Tell me what to do.” 

"I reckon..." Hosea lets Dutch pull the shirt from his arms and off his chest. Dutch watches him feel at the wound with knowing fingers, wincing slightly at his own touch. Dutch wonders, distantly, if he could ever handle himself with the same composure. "Yeah, it’s clean. Feels like my ribs are where they should be. Don't think it hit much." 

“It hit enough _ , _ " Dutch says. Hosea laughs. Dutch leans to look. The wound in Hosea's side is just at the end of his ribs, a gouge the length of a finger. Dutch is relieved, ugly as it may be. He had expected worse, and Hosea surely knows it. 

“And yet I'm still breathing. And bleeding, if you forgot," Hosea says. He holds his shirt to the wound, balled up in his shaking hands. His face is dull, and Dutch wishes he could look away. "I'm gonna need help with this.” 

"I can help," Arthur pushes at Dutch and he rises to his feet before he can think. Arthur kneels and busies himself with lighting a candle, and Dutch again feels dumb and useless through his daze. He watches Arthur hold the blade of his knife in the struggling flame. 

“No gunpowder, Arthur,” Hosea says. Arthur looks up at him skeptically, but nods. 

“Sure."

Dutch produces a bottle of gin and opens it, kneeling down next to Hosea again. He covers the mouth of the bottle with his panic-numbed fingers.

"Gonna sting," Dutch says. Hosea straightens up, winces as Dutch splashes the gin over the wound in his side. The alcohol mixes thinly with the blood, the sickly smell of iron mixing with the sharp smell of pine.

"You got something left to drink?" Arthur asks. 

"Don't need it," Hosea says. Arthur raises his eyebrows at Hosea. Dutch holds the bottle of gin out to Hosea, and Hosea looks at it and grimaces. Dutch thrusts it toward him again, and Hosea takes it and takes a long, shaky drink.

"You ready?" Arthur asks. Hosea nods.

"Sure," Hosea fumbles for his discarded shirt next to him and stuffs it into his mouth. 

Arthur presses his knife against wound in a series of short sizzles, almost expertly so. Hosea cries out modestly, his jaw working hard on the fabric in his mouth. Dutch grinds his teeth in a sympathetic echo, watching sweat break out again on Hosea's dull skin. 

"You good?" Arthur asks. Hosea nods, his eyes watering. Dutch offers Hosea his hands, and Hosea digs his fingers into Dutch’s arms instead. When Arthur returns the knife to the gash with a hiss, Hosea grips Dutch's arm with bruising force. Dutch lets him, bites back the groan he feels threatening in his chest. He’s grateful that Hosea is there to crush his arms at all.

Arthur works until the bleeding is mostly staunched. The wound is raw and angry, but feels like less of a threat staring back at them. Dutch eases his arms from Hosea’s grip and kneels before him again. Arthur stands and passes Dutch a handful of rags, and Dutch carefully tries to scrub some of the blood from Hosea’s skin. Hosea winces as he does it, and tiredly bats Dutch away with his eyes closed. Dutch gives up, tying clean rags together to secure tightly around Hosea's waist. Hosea lets him cover the wound and then leans back in the chair, breathing laboriously.

"I will say I'm cold," Hosea says, and it would be casual if not for his teeth rattling against each other, his eyes glassy with discomfort. 

“I can start a fire,” Arthur offers. Hosea nods.

"I'll lay with you,” Dutch says simply. 

"You never did need much asking," Hosea says softly, and he laughs to himself. Dutch sighs, his chest pounding. 

"I'm relieved that you're feeling well enough to mock me," Dutch says, as dryly as he can tell the truth. 

“Always,” Hosea says with a weak smile. 

Arthur raises his eyebrows and gets up, wiping his knife on the leg of his pants as he leaves the cabin. Dutch gently pulls Hosea up from the chair and sits him on the small cot, sitting next to him so Hosea can lean against his shoulder. Arthur comes back in with an open can of apricots. He holds it out to Hosea, who takes it and gingerly sips at the juice. 

“I got some jerky in my bags, too, for when you want," Arthur says. Dutch nods. Hosea hands the can back to Arthur, who sets it on the floor at the side of the cot, and Hosea lies down carefully, closing his eyes. Dutch stays sitting on the edge of the cot and sighs. 

Arthur watches him, as if waiting for something. Dutch turns to look at him, sitting in all of his sixteen years with the weary stillness of an older man.

“You okay, Arthur?” Dutch asks, and he realizes he doesn’t know just who he’s asking after.

“Yeah, Dutch,” Arthur says.

They look past each other in silence.

"You did well, Arthur. Thank you,” Dutch says.

Arthur looks up at him, relief and gratitude and pride playing over his face. Dutch feels himself startle at how moved he is by Arthur’s appreciation.

“You was scared, Dutch,” Arthur says. It leaves Arthur’s lips with sympathy but falls on Dutch’s chest like an accusation. He swallows his frustration. “I was just doing what I know to do."

“I was,” Dutch says, looking at the mess of bloody cloth on the floor. “Why don’t you get some rest, son? You look worn out.” 

“Think I’m gonna go outside for a while. For the horses. And I’d feel better if someone was looking out.” 

“Okay, Arthur,” Dutch says. “Someone comes by, you tell them you’re just...hunting with your uncles.”

“Sure, Dutch,” Arthur laughs softly to himself. He picks up a rifle propped by the door and steps outside. The small cabin suddenly feels too big - furnished with nothing but the creaking cot and the elderly chair. The stove squats crackling with the fire Arthur stoked, accompanied only by Arthur’s lonely bedroll. The saddlebags lay forgotten on the floor. 

Dutch places his guns, two canteens, the gin, and the can of apricots on the floor next to the cot, lining them up neatly. He carefully lies down next to Hosea, balancing himself comfortably enough on the edge.

Hosea is warm - miraculously so, Dutch thinks - and Dutch pulls the blankets over them both. Though Hosea complains so often of being cold, he somehow stays warm to the touch, like bits of the sun hide away in his golden hair and freckled skin. 

Dutch holds himself up on his elbow, looking over Hosea's face. He looks dampened, the light of his face dimmed. Dutch smooths his hair and lies down, resting a hand on Hosea's chest. He trembles slightly every few breaths. Dutch shifts closer, resisting his own need to pull Hosea’s narrow frame into his arms. Hosea won’t be dying - not yet, at least, as Dutch thinks of everything that could go wrong - but the residue of fear still hangs in Dutch’s mind. He longs to feel Hosea’s hard shoulder against his chest.

Dutch won't sleep, he knows that much. The worry twisting in his gut is enough to keep him awake, but Dutch doesn’t want to wake Hosea with the tossing and turning that he fusses about so often. He listens to Hosea's tired breathing. 

He kisses Hosea's shoulder and presses his forehead against it, closing his eyes. He can hear Arthur outside talking to the horses. He'll have to thank Arthur for it later. A few late crickets sing through the daytime with their subdued autumn songs. The wind rattles through the trees, and the drying leaves clatter on the roof of the cabin. In the midst of it, Dutch dozes off into a stiff and restless, waking each time Hosea stirs or coughs in his sleep and lifting his head to watch Hosea for a moment before lying back down. He listens for Arthur moving around outside, knowing he could never sit still for so long. He can hear him, likely kicking around in the dirt by the sound of it. 

He falls back into his light sleep, awake enough only to think that he's scarcely slept so lightly since before Hosea had joined up with him, all those seasons ago. Through the film of sleep he hears Arthur come in quietly, blinks at him sleepily as he pulls the creaking chair up to sit at Hosea's other side. The evening sun is coming through the small cabin window and its ragged curtain, bringing the dusty air to life over the bed. The sun’s heat prickles on the back of Dutch’s scalp. 

Hosea stirs again - minutes or hours later, Dutch doesn't know, but he still feels the warmth of the sun lingering around him. Pulling himself slowly from his sleep, he feels Hosea's nose in his hair, a familiar kiss being pressed to his head. Dutch stays still, though Hosea surely knows he's awake, as he always does. He feels the backs of Hosea’s fingers against his cheek, resting against his skin for a long moment. Hosea doesn't move far, keeps his face close enough that Dutch can feel the familiar warmth of his breath.

Hosea’s breathing slows again, back into sleep. He cracks open one eye to see Arthur slumped in his seat over the cot, resting his head in his arms at Hosea's side. Hosea's hand rests loosely around Arthur's arm. Dutch feels a warm relief run through his chest, enough to set his heart to pounding again, feeling suddenly too giddy to sleep. Still, he feels himself slipping into something too sound, lulled by Hosea's steady breathing. He accepts it before he can stop himself. 

Dutch wakes to the sound of Arthur moving around the cabin with his heavy steps. He lifts himself up, looking Hosea over as he does. He looks brighter, more like himself, even in the low light. Arthur stokes the fire and nods at Dutch as Dutch gets up. The sun has set, and a candle sits freshly lit in the windowsill.

“Thanks for looking after the horses." 

“I like 'em," Arthur shrugs. “How’s Hosea?”

Dutch shrugs. Arthur nods.

“Got ourselves worried over nothing,” Arthur says.

“We’ll see. Get some rest, Arthur."

"You think he'll mind?" Arthur nods to the cot, the narrow space next to Hosea left vacant. "I ain't a violent sleeper. Don’t wanna be too far in case he needs something." 

"No, I don't think he would," Dutch says. He thinks of Hosea’s fingers looped over Arthur’s arm in the afternoon sun. 

Arthur nods and carefully lowers himself, lying down with one leg over the edge of the cot and his arms folded across his chest. Dutch watches for a moment and turns to step out the door.

The night air is cool and dry and refreshing after the long warmth and stillness of the cabin. It'll send Hosea coughing, he thinks, and wonders absently how long ago he began thinking of the weather in terms of Hosea’s health.

He paces around the perimeter of the cabin, relieves himself, checks on the horses. He sits down on the step outside the cabin door and watches the dark silhouettes of trees swaying against the stars in the gentle wind. It should be about midnight, judging by the stars that stretch dustily across the sky.

There are pebbles lined up in the dirt, little squares of four - Arthur keeping himself busy. The patterns remind him of Hosea’s complaints that Arthur needs to work on his figuring more. Dutch is no good with numbers, and he suspects Hosea may not be either. But he’ll try, he decides, at least until Hosea shoves him out of the way to take over.

Dutch stays outside, restlessly moving between sitting and pacing. He thinks of things they'll need to do, taking inventory of things that require Hosea’s lively presence. Teach Arthur his arithmetic, somehow. Get Hosea to a doctor, just to be certain. Arthur needs a haircut, and Hosea has always been best at that. And the money they’ve just come into will need to be managed - given away and spent on things that are easier to carry. 

The sky starts to lighten in the east, and Dutch wonders how long he’s been pacing. He feels his stomach stabbing at him with hunger and realizes he hasn’t eaten in two nights. 

The door creaks as he pushes it open. The cabin is lit softly in orange from the stove and greys from the window. Arthur is asleep on his chest now, balancing precariously on the edge of the cot, one arm and one leg hanging over the side. Hosea is still asleep, the shadows of his face familiar again, his head tilted gracefully on the roll of blankets under his head. 

Arthur stirs, not noticing Dutch standing in the doorway, and he lifts himself enough to turn and look at Hosea for a sleepy moment, then lie back down. Dutch feels a smile tug at his mouth and a heat well up in his ears, feeling suddenly as if he was struck hard in the chest. It could fell him, Dutch thinks - the huge, rushing affection and pride he feels flooding over him, feeling himself sway as if slipping from his saddle.

For a moment Dutch feels urged to shake Arthur and Hosea awake to tell them, though he wouldn’t know what to say. Hosea would understand if Dutch tried to articulate it in whispers in the dark on some sleepless night, but he would tease him for it nonetheless. So Dutch stays in the doorway, watching the still scene before him, hoping to keep it stowed safely in his memory, to share at some later time when the right moment strikes. The shredded curtains swaying in the breeze, the light playing over Hosea's fair brows and eyelashes, Arthur's humble, boyish state of collapse. 

The ache fades from his chest and Dutch immediately longs for it, but finally moves, settling into the creaking chair with the forgotten half-full can of apricots. He finds them far sweeter than usual.

⦿⦿⦿

The day passes slowly and comfortably, Hosea drifting in and out of sleep while Arthur and Dutch laze about the small cabin. Arthur is relieved by Hosea’s high spirits when he wakes, relieved that Hosea has it in him to cheat at cards and argue with Dutch about nothing. Hosea says he’ll be good to ride again soon, and Dutch insists on taking him to a doctor and getting him  _ proper rest _ in an inn, and Hosea laughs at him for it.

Arthur watches Dutch change the dressing on Hosea’s side. The skin is discolored and swollen, the hole in his side raw and ugly. 

“Gonna be a nasty scar,” Dutch tells him. 

“I’ll take a nasty scar over a shattered rib any day,” Hosea says, wincing as Dutch dabs around it with a gin-soaked rag. “You are really making this out to be bigger than it is, Dutch.”

“Pardon me, Hosea, for being worried.”

“You do far more than worry once you can be bothered to worry at all,” Hosea says. 

“And what do you mean by that, exactly? I always  _ worry _ ,” Dutch says softly, like a confession. Hosea hums a knowing sound. Arthur smiles to himself, watching Hosea look down at Dutch with his tired fondness through his wincing. 

Arthur sits in his chair and listens to it, a familiar and circular conversation. He could invent their arguments, for how many of them he’s listened to. Their bickering had made him uneasy when they first picked him up, and now its absence makes him apprehensive. It’s a peculiar way of loving someone, Arthur thinks, to only ever poke at each other until the other isn’t looking. 

They share a small lunch, Dutch forcing half his food on Hosea, who eats it with a look in his eyes as if he’s only doing it to humor them.

Dutch hoists up the blood-smeared saddlebags and dumps their contents on the blankets. Hosea laughs to himself, picking up some of the jewelry glinting in the sunlight. 

“I reckon it was worth it,” Hosea says. He sifts through the billfolds and jewelry. 

“Take anything you like, Arthur,” Dutch says, and it surprises him, even after all this time. 

Arthur looks through the jewelry, finding none of it impressive. He shrugs and leans back in his chair. Hosea holds a simple brass belt buckle out to him.

“This suits you, if you ask me,” Hosea says. Arthur looks at it thoughtfully. The engraving is simple and nice, and Arthur imagines it may be too nice even for him. He takes it anyway, because it comes from Hosea’s hand, because Dutch is watching him so expectantly.

They talk quietly about what to do with what they’ve stolen, sorting the money from the jewelry. Dutch and Hosea do most of the discussing, more a formality than a conversation given that they always handle it the same way - giving away all that they don’t need and then starting over again with robbing rich folks and O’Driscolls. They include Arthur in it, though as always he says nothing, but nods along. 

Hosea rests through the dwindling afternoon, and Dutch sits with Arthur and tries to teach him some sloppy arithmetic until they both get frustrated. Dutch says that Hosea will teach him better, Arthur nodding in silent agreement. They both know that Hosea is the better teacher - more patient and understanding, though Arthur would never say it aloud. 

The sun sets, and Arthur liberates himself from Dutch’s rambling by stepping outside. He likes the quiet of the night, and the confidence that he isn't being observed. The bats are chirping despite the autumn chill that creeps through Arthur’s jeans. He listens to a nightbird, trying to silently shape his lips to mimic their calls - Hosea had told him once not to whistle at night - as he sketches in his journal in flickering lanternlight. 

He has drawn Dutch and Hosea countless times, so familiar that he can sketch them with ease, even in poor light. Dutch would surely tease him should he ever see the pages of his journal - the plants and animals would impress him, but he would be too flattered to see his likeness and would forget himself. So Arthur keeps his sketches precious secrets - the horses, flora and fauna and buildings and strangers, but most sacredly Dutch and Hosea. On horseback ahead of him, bent over a map together, Hosea fishing somberly like a man born to sit on a riverbank, Dutch surveying something with all of his proud certainty. 

Hosea saw Arthur's drawing over his shoulder once. He hadn't said anything, but Arthur heard him pause to look, felt him quickly ruffle his hair as he walked away. Arthur had wished for a moment that Hosea had said something or asked to see more, but he was relieved by Hosea’s disappearance, in the end. 

He would never show anyone what he now draws, the small remembered sketches of the events of the last few days - Dutch standing worried with his arms crossed over his chest, Hosea sleeping with Dutch at his side. He sketches out the lines of Dutch's shoulders as he had knelt at the bedside to talk to Hosea that morning. 

The horses stir at something, and Arthur looks up and glances around. He sees nothing, but after a moment hears the chittering of raccoons challenging one another in their petty ways. He smiles to himself, sketches the small outline of a raccoon in the corner of the page. 

Low voices come from inside the cabin, and Dutch's boots across the floor. Arthur hears canteens opening and closing, a soft laugh from Dutch, and Hosea coughing, groaning quietly. Arthur scoots up the small porch to lean against the wall under the window, able to make out the words. 

"It ain't so bad," Hosea's voice is gravely and tired, but Arthur is still relieved to hear it. He tips his head against the wall and listens.

"You sure?" Dutch's voice comes. 

"Yes," Hosea's polite annoyance is clear and welcome to Arthur’s ears - an easy sign of normalcy. He had known all along that Hosea would pull through, but it hadn’t calmed the anxious patter of his heart the way that Hosea’s dry voice does.

"Well, pardon me for asking, old girl,” Dutch says. 

Their conversation drops to something low and quiet, and Arthur can only hear the tones of it - Dutch’s careful and apologetic, and Hosea’s gentle but dismissive. It lulls him into the security that comes before sleep, as it has so many times before. When Arthur had first heard them speaking sweetly to each other he had thought something was wrong, for how unusual it had been. Now it’s a sound as rare but as natural as their bickering, like the wind in the trees or the crickets in late summer. 

He hears Dutch's heavy footsteps across the floorboards, the creak of the rusty old stove opening, the sound of Dutch adding wood to the fire.

"Ain't that a sight. Never thought I'd see the day," Hosea says, chuckling. Arthur breathes a laugh. When they had settled into the cabin Dutch had teased Hosea that he looked like he was meant to tend to a stove fire within four walls, and Hosea had swatted at him saying that flattery wouldn't get him out of chores, and then they had both swatted at Arthur for laughing. 

Dutch had been right, however - Hosea is the only one of them who looks as if he could ever fit into a home. Dutch is too wild, and Arthur too rough, but Hosea looks as at peace in the ramshackle cabin as he does pitching a tent. Arthur thinks it might frighten Dutch, as much as he seems charmed by it. 

Arthur listens to their gentle arguing begin again, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his jacket around his legs. He hears the cot creaking, and both of them fussing over one another about Hosea moving around, something about a chamber pot.

“Nothing is preventing me from pissing outside," Hosea says. “I ain’t going far. It’s good to move around."

"You do so like to make things difficult for yourself," Dutch says. 

"Oh, no, I don't have to. That's what I have you for." 

The door opens, and Hosea steps stiffly off the porch. Dutch's shadow fills the doorway and Arthur looks up at him, closing his journal over his finger. Hosea turns to look at him and theatrically hangs his head. Arthur huffs a laugh.

“It’s nothing you ain’t seen before, Dutch, don’t worry," Hosea says, and walks stiffly around the side of the cabin, out of sight of the door. Dutch ducks his head and smiles, quietly snorting a laugh. 

"If you get lost out there I ain't looking for you till morning," Dutch calls. 

"Don't tempt me," Hosea calls back.

Hosea comes back into view, his unusual stiff gait nearly startling Arthur in the low light.

"Arthur, why don't you come in?" Hosea offers. "It’s cold out here, and it turns out old Dutch knows how to work a stove still after all." 

Arthur looks to Dutch, who only looks at Hosea with a friendly annoyance in his face. Arthur stands up, still uncertain, but follows them in anyway. He sits down on his bedroll, laid out by the stove, watching them fuss about the cot. 

"And so I return from my odyssey, safe and sound," Hosea tells Dutch as he lowers himself back to the cot. 

"Always with the theatrics, Hosea." 

"You almost make me wish those bastards had better aim." 

"Don't say that," Dutch says, his face pale. He lays back on the cot next to Hosea, both of them expertly making room for the other on the narrow mattress. 

The cabin falls silent, save for the gentle sounds of the fire in the stove. Arthur returns to his drawing, shading in an outline of Dutch in the doorway. He wishes his writing was worthy of his journal pages, knows he should practice it in the privacy the journal affords him, but he keeps to his drawings anyway.

Arthur looks up when Hosea grunts as he leans over, reaching for his satchel resting on the floor. Dutch huffs a sigh and sits up, reaches over Hosea, picking up the satchel. He holds it out of Hosea's reach, kisses him quickly on the cheek, and then drops it in his lap. Hosea shakes his head. Arthur casts his eyes back to his journal as Hosea digs out one of his tattered dime novels. 

Arthur wakes up, blinking himself back into his surroundings. The fire is low but the lanterns are bright, and his neck is stiff where it had lolled onto his shoulder. His journal is still in his lap, the contents smudged by his sleepy fingers. Hosea is awake, still reading. Dutch is asleep, one arm slung over Hosea's legs.

"I tried to wake you earlier, you weren't having it," Hosea says. 

“Everything okay?" Arthur asks. He reaches for his canteen, relishing in the cool ecstasy of water just after waking. 

“You just looked mighty uncomfortable.”

“Thanks, Hosea.” 

"How are you doing, Arthur?" Hosea asks. 

"I'm just fine, Hosea," Arthur says. He tries to make himself look busy with his journal, but finds he's forgotten what he was thinking when he started drawing lines before he dozed off. He blinks tiredly, closes his journal, and starts arranging his bedroll for proper sleep.

"You did very well the last couple days," Hosea says. Arthur freezes and stares at the floor between them. "I mean that. Be proud of yourself." 

"Thanks, Hosea," Arthur says, his mouth feeling dry. Hosea praises him often, and always sincerely, and never as if he's praising himself. This is no different, yet it feels unfamiliar. Arthur accepts it nonetheless, pushing the wariness from his mind. 

Arthur lowers himself to his bedroll properly, and wraps himself in his blanket. He positions himself so he can see Hosea, who has now returned to his reading, without looking entirely obvious, though Hosea is too often wise to Arthur's observance, throwing him knowing, unbothered glances when he catches Arthur studying him or Dutch. 

Arthur stirs when he hears a lantern hiss off. He watches through half-open eyes in the low light from the stove as Hosea smooths Dutch's hair and stiffly lowers himself to lie down again. Dutch mumbles something, and the cot creaks as he stretches and throws an arm over Hosea's chest. The stove ticks and creaks, keeping the irregular time of the silence.

"Get some rest, Arthur," Hosea says softly into the darkness. Arthur feels his ears turn hot at being caught awake, though Hosea’s voice is free of accusation.

"I will. I'm glad you're okay, Hosea." 

"Me too. Thanks to you." 

Arthur's ears burn again. He's grateful for the low light, though he imagines Hosea knows Arthur receives such praise so bashfully. 

“Don’t know what we'd do without you, old man," Arthur says.

"I know I tease you plenty but I reckon you two would be just fine without me. And if you weren't then I suppose I'd have failed you both."

"Don't say that," Arthur says. Hosea laughs to himself and coughs softly. “I’m proud you’re here.” 

A beat of soft silence falls between them. Hosea’s voice is carefully restrained when he finally speaks.

“I’m proud to be here, Arthur. Now get some rest." 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> i am on [twitter](http://twitter.com/jukebxgrad) and my other socials are listed there & in my ao3 bio.
> 
> i also have other red dead fic if you want more where this came from.
> 
> once again please check out selene's art on [tumblr](https://the-curious-couple-fanart.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/SeleneVolturo). it's SO delightful, she's out here doing god's work.


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